(Octavia/Anon) Suite (Slice of Life)

"Vinyl?"
>She's hunched over her turntable, working on some of that new "plunderphonics" stuff she's so into.
>Her back is to you, and most of the living room.
>This whole place can finally be her studio now.
>You are Octavia Philharmonica, resident cellist of Ponyville.
>In a few minutes, ex-resident.
>You're going to miss your old roomie.
>However ponies might have thought of you, she really kept your head screwed on right for all these years.
>Not to mention that she was always the "tidy" one of the two of you.
"I'm leaving in a moment, Vinyl. Anonymous is waiting at the station with my bags. I just wanted to say goodbye before I went."
>She gives no reply.
"I don't know when I'll be coming back, but... I'll visit you, alright? I'll send you a letter once we get settled in."
>Nothing.
>You contain a sigh.
"Alright, then. Goodbye, Vinyl."
>You turn, regarding the rest of your ex-apartment.
>The fridge that held your takeout so faithfully, covered in magnets Vinyl grabbed from visits to her parents and scraps of schedules that were months out of date.
>The pile of promotional pictures you'd never bothered to frame.
>If you were alone, you would forgo your decision and stay here.
>You're lucky your muse has agreed to go, too. Now it would be selfish to stay, and stupid.
>You push open the door, and head out.
>But something halts you in the doorway, pulling you backwards a little.
>You feel the familiar tug of those white fetlocks around your neck.
>The scratchy mane against the side of your face.
>There's a long, exhaustive squeeze.
>And then, just as quickly, they're gone, and you hear hooves trotting back toward the corner.
>You take a deep breath, and continue out the door.

>The train ride is quiet.
>Anonymous knows how glum you are, and hasn't said anything to you.
>The uncomfortable glances from around your car aren't getting to him.
>You've promised him it's better in Canterlot.
>You're laid out across his lap, looking out the window at the flitting trees and declining ground.
>The apartment has been prepaid for, rent taken out of your funds and Anon's royal stipend.
>He's never met the princesses, but they give him a small allowance as a nonthreatening interloper.
>Without flight, unicorn magic, or the basic strength to move the earth, most jobs are beyond him.
>He never let it get him down, though. Before he caught your eye, he did as many odd jobs as he could.
>Ever the friendly one, your Nonny.
>The glass is smudged a little from your breathing.
>In the distance, Ponyville is getting harder and harder to make out.
>You stare at it, morosely unblinking.
>This is your mourning period. Get it out of your system now, before you show up.
>You feel Anonymous' fingers behind your ear, rubbing up and down softly.
>Those magic fingers...
>You feel little flashes of warmth travel up and down your body, like whiskey into coffee.
>You can see him in the reflection, and only his hand's moving.
>The other one stays firmly on your withers.
>He's staring into the middle distance.
>You adjust yourself a little so your body's leaning against his chest.
>He stops.
>You can mostly see the Everfree now, and not the town.
>Just as you're about to look up and ask, he starts rubbing again.
>Ahh.
>Canterlot will be better for both of you.
>It'll be the place where you can make your dreams come true.

>Be Anonymous.
>Caretaker to Equestria's cutest bohemian.
>You and the impeccable postal service made quick work of the move.
>It helped that a lot of the furniture was already provided.
>Tavi's looking around the studio area while you fish through your bags.
>This is the third floor, mostly hardwood with a couch, a few big windows that could use a little insulation.
>Kitchen's big enough that nothing'll get stuck in the cabinets, and the walls are soundproofed enough that you can't hear the neighbors right now.
>It's nice to have a change of scenery, but mostly you came here for Tavi's sake.
>She put her heart into making it to Canterlot, man, and she's finally doing it.
>Feels good.
>You produce your toothbrush, your meager book collection, and your silverware, and put them in rough patches of the place.
>Organization can come once you see exactly what you're working with.
>In the middle of your work, you find her cello case, given its own box and nestled amid a trillion packing peanuts.
>You retrieve it gingerly and stand it by the front door.
>There.
>You sit on the couch and survey your new living-space.
>A minute later, Tavi comes out, looking grave.
"Something wrong?"
>"Yes, the bedroom."
>You follow her into the last room you haven't seen yet.
>...Oh.
>The bed's pony-sized.
"Well, we'll get a bigger bed as soon as we can, and I'll sleep on the couch in the meantime."
>For a moment, she just stares at it.
>"Alright."
>Oh, no, no melancholy in Anon's house.
>You rub her cheek and kiss her between the eyes to break the spell.
"Come on, let's see where all the ingredients are and I'll make us some dinner."

>You're Octavia, stewing in your studio.
>You've got some spaghetti in you now, and the sun's set.
>Anonymous is dozing on the couch with an unzipped sleeping bag for a blanket.
>Your cello is here with you, your stand, your sheet music, your ink and quill and favorite music theory texts.
>But... composition won't happen.
>You readjust the stand and pace the room a few times, but nothing changes.
>It seems so... absurd, to make music right now.
>Your range of expression seems so finite, only a few dozen individual sounds.
>Even as one voice in a choir of instruments, what can you meaningfully say?
>You kept a stiff upper lip about it around her, but you were always jealous of Vinyl for how effortless music could be for her.
>No painstaking notation, no sturm und drang...
>If you can't make something before two months are up, you'll have to go back to her.
>And drag your muse back with you.
>You're undergoing the harsh lurch of every artist, the realization that the actual work has so very little to do with creativity, or cleverness, or anything elegant and beautiful.
>You feel like a pony who pulls a shaped stick against strings and expects to be paid for it.
>Your problem is a lack of audience. You need to audition somewhere and get accepted, then you'll be able to play something worthy.
>Except you won't get praised and paid anywhere until you can prove yourself.
>You have a couple of ideas of places to cold-call, but you can't hold out hope for them.
>You just wrote them down to feel like you had a reason to come out this far.
>You felt like it'd just work itself out once you stepped into your new home.
>Miserable, you retire to your bed, cello still in its case.

>This isn't your bed.
>It's cold, too hard, the wrong shape.
>Minutes pass, staring at the too-bright glow at the base of the far window and wondering what it might be.
>Eventually, you head into the main room.
>Anon hasn't moved, but it's a tiny couch.
>You lean over the back and insinuate yourself on top of the sleeping bag.
>This is... lumpier than you were hoping.
>Anonymous stirs without opening his eyes, and rolls.
>You're caught up in his wake, sandwiched between him and the couch.
>Unconsciously, he spoons you under the cover, and you close your eyes.
>This is more like it.

>Be Anon.
>Tavi climbed into your makeshift bed last night, and this morning she was chipper.
>On the other hand, she hasn't been able to do any work, and your back's pretty sore.
>You're out and about now on the streets of Canterlot.
>Bed-shopping.
>It takes a lot of effort to even find a vendor, actually. In Ponyville, you'd just go to the sofa-quill store.
>You miss hanging out there.
>But once you find mattresses, it's pretty easy to find the one.
[>Because it's the only one in three stores that your feet don't fall off of.]
>Springs, no stains, not too expensive, you throw down some bits and have it shipped off to your apartment.
>Your real destination is a little closer to the center of the city.

>"Here?"
"Come on, for me?"
>"But there are so many people--"
"Just ignore them. They don't matter. Besides, it's been a long time and I really want to see it again."
>You hold her hooves and look into her eyes.
>She stares back with those violet beauties.
>Then she straightens, closes her eyes, and stands on her hind legs.
>And in the middle of the park, on the grass by the stream with the little cobblestone path by it, faint music begins to play.
>It's not true that earth ponies don't have magic; like unicorns, they sometimes have magic based on their talents.
>Unlike unicorns, their magic is much fainter without a focus to channel it.
>(Which is why musicians still use instruments and Pinkie Pie keeps a party-themed armory on-hoof.)
>But even without an instrument, your mare can still play the air.
>It's the most ethereal sight you've ever seen.
>Eyes closed, black hair flowing in a light wind, maintaining her stance and massaging the air with her hoof.
>The thrumming starts at the edge of your hearing, and then distinguishes itself among the livelihood and chirruping.
>It's pieces she's played before in Ponyville, chopped and stitched together by rambling improvisation.
>Long, slow notes, all perfectly corresponding to the strings she isn't pulling.
>A child would call it a sad song, but really it's just thoughtful.
>She doesn't know what she's doing right now.
>Whether any of this will work out.
>You sit in the grass and watch her say all this.
>And in the background, other ponies start to pay attention.

>Be Octavia.
>Anonymous never asks you to stop playing, so you indulge him for a full ten minutes.
>[spoiler]It's easier to keep going than to quit, anyway.[/spoiler]
>But as your magic fades, your hooves tingling with the sudden absence, you bow on reflex and open your eyes.
>You're startled by a sudden round of applause.
>Gathered around are dozens of ponies, most of them unicorns with a couple of earth ponies in the mix.
>At the foot of the group is Anonymous, unmoving, but smiling at you.
>The surrounding cheers don't make that smile any less private.
>You relax a little, and smile back.
"Thank you, everyone."
>"Do you have any events coming up?"
>"Didn't you play at the Gala a few years ago?"
>"Could you play at my friend's birthday party?"
>You leave that park with a handful of fans, two gigs and your muse by your side.
>Into the afternoon streets you trot.
>Things are going to be alright, you think.
>Things are going to be alright.